


Sunlit

by pearypie



Series: blue moonlight on yellow sand [6]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Romance, a sweet moment before vincent's wedding, like really sweet, or as sweet as you can get between these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27912565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Vincent chuckles. “Rachel is young—rambunctious and sweet. Eager to see the world of the aristocracy and what lays beyond. Don’t fault her for her exuberance, sis.”“I fault her for nothing save her poor choice in men.”“And what do you have to say for yourself?”(Frances has always been difficult to read, but her brother's wedding day to Rachel Dalles forces more emotion than Frances would ever care to express.)
Relationships: Francis Midford & Vincent Phantomhive, Francis Midford/Vincent Phantomhive
Series: blue moonlight on yellow sand [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/865491
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Sunlit

It is Vincent's wedding day and he is, to be blunt, _bored_. Everyone else remains in a state of preparation while Vincent remains ensconced in his personal suite, young Edward in his lap as he awaits his sister’s return from Rachel’s bridal chambers.

“Never marry, Edward.” Vincent sighs tragically. “Marriage is the death of spontaneity. You’ll never again be able to leave when you want to, deadlines will be cast aside, and I don’t believe your bride will take too kindly to any sudden flights of fancy. Thankfully, Rachel rather enjoys traveling.” He pokes at his nephew’s plump, rosy cheek, watching as the baby gurgles in delight. “I do enjoy the fact you’re so easily amused.” He chuckles. “When Frannie was a baby all she’d do was glare. Glare at her nursemaid, glare at the maids, glare at anyone who crossed her path that she found herself unfamiliar with. Of course, _I_ was the only person who she never glared at.” Vincent preens. “I could always tell Frannie’s humorous glares from her serious ones.”

From behind, Vincent hears the double doors opening and within seconds, is greeted by the familiar scent of vanilla and lavender.

“Frannie!” He turns, greeting his sister with a jaunty wave while Edward tussles in his arms, eager for his mother.

“Brother,” she crosses the room, placing a kiss on his cheek before turning down to the bundle in his arms. “Edward dearest.” She smiles, hands coming to adjust the cashmere blanket. “How did you enjoy your Uncle Vincent’s tall tales?”

“I’ve told him the truth!” He protests with utter seriousness. And then, “why aren’t I ‘Vincent dearest?’” He prods. “Aren’t I as dear to you as young Edward?”

“Infinitely, but not currently. Your pouting is never attractive.” She retorts, barely glancing up as she moves towards the dresser.

Vincent grasps her wrist before she move any farther, teal eyes sparkling with amusement. “My, my, baby sister,” his mouth twists in a smile, “is that _jealously_ I hear in your voice?”

“Jealousy?” She arches a brow.

“Mmh,” he tugs her closer, grip unyielding. “ _Jealousy_.”

“I do believe this is more akin to _apathy_ —“ she returns, fingertip tapping against Vincent’s hand.

The earl shakes his head, clearly delighted with this sudden turn of events. “Admit it.” He demands.

“I will admit to nothing of the sort.”

“You wish I’d remained as unattached as a Franciscan friar!”

“Now this is becoming absurd, Vincent—“

“ _Frannie_.” He sing-songs cheerfully, positively vibrating with joy at seeing her glare. “You _are_ jealous—more jealous than I ever expected you to be!”

She shrugs him off, easily freeing herself from his grasp. “If there’s anything I’m jealous of it’s your ability to delude yourself with such adroit ease.”

He chuckles, adjusting his grip on a now sleepy Edward and bringing the babe closer to his chest. “You know there is utterly no one in this world who can ever occupy my heart as you can.”

“No one?” A hint of vulnerability cracks her fine porcelain mask.

Vincent suppresses another smile. “No one.” He confirms.

“Then we must truly be two of a kind.” She muses, moving closer to him, allowing Vincent to wrap his arm around her waist as she brushed a loose lock of hair from Edward’s forehead. “It’s a wonder we’ve found anyone at all.”

“Well I’ve relied on my infinite charm but I can’t possibly say what motivated young Alexis to propose marriage.”

“You could have breathed and Miss Angelina would have married you on the spot.” She twists the emerald and diamond ring on her finger.

Vincent recalls the shy, redheaded girl with the milk-pale skin and wide amber eyes. A striking young lady with too much intellect and not enough courage to truly embrace it.

A pity.

“Alas, my favorite choice of potential bride was the Lady Donovan—tis a shame she never invited me into her home.”

“Indeed, the young Phantomhive heir wedding the 43 year old widow. _That_ would certainly have been a subdued affair.” Her voice is pointed but not unamused and Vincent knows Frances had been fond of the dowager duchess. “Although she was a better conversationalist than your other bridal candidates.” 

Vincent chuckles. “Rachel is young—rambunctious and sweet. Eager to see the world of the aristocracy and what lays beyond. Don’t fault her for her exuberance, sis.”

“I fault her for nothing save her poor choice in men.”

“And what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing at all, I had no choice in the matter.”

“No choice?”

Frances hums. “None at all.” She leans into his shoulder, cheek pressing against the rich fabric of his finely tailored suit jacket. “I came into this world loving you with no rhyme or reason.” She says, blunt and unrelentingly honest. “So you see,” she glances up, “I had utterly no say in how I was meant to feel.”

Vincent is silent for a moment, eyes transfixed at the exposed flesh of his sister’s throat before he moves to place the now asleep Edward in the nearby cradle. One finger comes to trace his cheek, to take in the paleness of his golden hair and the dainty nose that so reminds him of Frances. 

_Safe,_ he thinks. _Safe and sweet, this young boy who is all but an extension of_ —

He turns suddenly, expression unreadable as he observes his sister standing there, draped in embroidered satin, her posture precise and her eyes unusually gentle. She is set aglow by the crystalline windows and incandescent sun, making Vincent wonder how lovely it would have been to confine himself to her, drowning in Frances day in and day out, the only woman to inspire intrigue rather than indifference. 

“I should wonder if the Greeks ever created mythology about this.” His voice is half a whisper in the afternoon light. “Of a love that twists and enraptures.”

He can see the way her eyes widen, ever so slightly, and he thinks she would like nothing more than to roll her eyes, to disregard this game he so wishes to play. 

Instead, she brings on hand to her mouth, feigning concentration. “Orpheus and Eurydice?” She proposes.

“Orpheus was an insipid fool." He dismisses. "And Eurydice was rather ugly looking to begin with.”

“Ah, then perhaps Psyche and Cupid?” 

“Cupid was a coward who failed to stand by Psyche’s side.” He approaches his sister. “I certainly hope you see few similarities between myself and that infantile boy.”

“My, my, aren’t we modest?”

“One of a kind.” He embraces her, lips pressing against the top of her head. “Unable to be contained within re-told myth.”

“Shall we start our own legend then?” She asks, and Vincent knows she speaks half in jest but her words have always been the only thing he’s ever believed in.

Even as a boy, Vincent had no need for the houses of worship others seemed to flock to. His pastor had reprimanded him furiously when Vincent used his Sunday school catechism as stationary for a letter to Diedrich.

But when Frances spoke, when she uttered sentences and phrases and thoughts out loud, Vincent adhered to them with all the diligence of a priest at prayer.

In this world, she was the only one who could instill faith in a non-believer.

Capturing his sister’s lips in a kiss, Vincent smiles down at her, enjoying the way she pulls him close, wanting and desirous of _more_. “I believe, dear sis, we must.”

And later, when the wedding takes place, and Rachel stands by him at the alter, bedecked in gauze and white, Vincent’s gaze remains fixed on his emerald-eyed sister, sitting right behind his bride.

When he utters “I do,” it is to Frances he looks upon. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Oh lord this leans heavily on the saccharine side, I'm so sorry - I wrote this listening to Gabrielle Aplin's "Start of Time" on repeat and this fic just turned out waaaayyy fluffier than I intended.


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